


shapes

by lemon_meringue



Series: tangible things [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Break Up, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, growing progressively healthier? kind of?, no officer i've never seen a beta before in my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:59:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24714217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_meringue/pseuds/lemon_meringue
Summary: He can’t look at the boy without seeing everything in every shape of him. Without seeing the highs and the lows, the best and the worst of them in every curve and ridge of Peter’s body.Peter is a masterpiece. Peter is patient and forgiving and soft even where he should be sharp. Quentin can't get over it. He sees it all in every piece of the boy.i.e. the progressive make-up implied at the end of "colors" ft. recovering alcoholism and significant self-loathing on Beck's part.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Series: tangible things [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1786861
Comments: 23
Kudos: 55





	shapes

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. I have so many other things to do. But this just... jumped at me out of nowhere and I couldn't not write it immediately. Sorry? 
> 
> A bit different from the first one. Please mind the narrator's alcohol addiction and poor mental health, plus the references to domestic violence & unhealthy relationship. The ending is somehow solidly happy regardless. 
> 
> p.s. I do not have first or even second-hand experience with alcoholism so note that this isn't going to be the most accurate portrayal of addiction, withdrawals, or recovery

Quentin sees everything in Peter. 

He can’t look at the boy without seeing everything in every shape of him. Without seeing the highs and the lows, the best and the worst of them in every curve and ridge of Peter’s body. 

Peter is a masterpiece. Peter is patient and forgiving and soft even where he should be sharp. Quentin can't get over it. He sees it all in every piece of the boy.

Everything in the slope of Peter’s legs. In his thighs and the dips and juts of his rounded, bent knees, the curve of his calves on one end, the curve of his ass on he other, as he lies naked and pliant and warm and glowing in the morning sunlight, safe and home and tangled with Quentin’s legs, right where he’s supposed to be.

Quentin sees Peter's legs beside his hips, feels them in his hands as he holds on, carrying the boy, Peter on his back, too lazy or tired or content to walk himself wherever it is they’re going. Those rides on his back and his shoulders. Sometimes when the boy began to droop, Quentin would hold on tighter, lean over, make sure he wouldn't slip off. Sometimes he'd drop one sculpted leg to grasp Peter's wrists, hold him steady and spin or jump and flounder to wake the boy up. He sees Peter's legs bent over one arm as he carries the boy bridal.

He sees the smooth muscle and the contours and he thinks of Peter running, jogging alongside Beck and complaining about the exercise. He sees Peter on his back beneath him, wrapping his legs around Beck's waist after they're already locked together to make sure they stay that way.

He sees him pull his knees up to his chest and wrap his arms around those fragile looking, powerful feeling legs and hide his face and shake, quaver, curled into himself and crying his bleeding heart out because Quentin said something stupid or did something cruel in the heat of withdrawals. Or worse, outside the heat of withdrawals. In the past, because he was an idiot who didn't understand what he had. Now, because he spoils even the good moments with bitterness.

~~Peter had every right to leave, it was _safer_ if he left, it was _healthier_ if he left, but dammit, _he left Quentin._ ~~

Beck remembers everything when he looks at Peter’s chest and stomach and arms. With his legs under the blankets, face under a pillow as he groans into it about reasonable, logical problems while Beck just stares, stares at that expanse of smooth skin and subtly defined strength. Stares where his arms bulge a little and his biceps pop away from his tendons and bone, where his chest dips between slightly built pecs, where his belly caves and rises with faint abdomen muscles, the curve from his comparatively broad shoulders to his narrow waist, the dip of his navel that Beck has to lick, the entire form of Peter’s figure that Quentin is helpless to put his mouth on and worship. 

He sees Peter’s torso and his arms and thinks of how happy he feels, to have Peter back in his bed. In his embrace, under his lips. He thinks of Peter twisting and turning and writhing to escape an onslaught of tickling. He thinks of the lissome middle and rounded edges of his hip bones under Quentin’s kisses. He thinks of Peter's torso gleaming in the sunlight, soaking wet from pool water.

He thinks of Peter’s pretty chest and stomach littered in those awful bruises, the way Beck handled him so roughly and carelessly that night that was _supposed to fix things._

Everything in Peter’s neck. Beautiful and swan-like and boyishly, effeminately slim, not quite as filled out as most other men’s. Beck thinks of Peter’s neck decorated with pretty gold and silver chains, necklaces, chokers. How right he looks adorned with jewelry. Like he should always be bathed in beautiful things, nothing ever as beautiful as him. He looks so good in bijouterie, splayed over his collar bones and throat. Precious gems that are lucky to touch Peter's skin.

Better yet, Beck sees his own hand. Never squeezing tight but holding, pinning him down, guiding him, latched onto him so possessively, because Peter _left_ and now that he’s back and he trusts Quentin enough to tip his head back, expose such a vulnerable part of himself and moan in pleasure, unafraid, as Quentin wraps his hand around his throat, it’s so fucking _hot_ and so goddamn reassuring that Quentin has to deflect, to ask in a deep, gravely voice if Peter wants him to tear him apart, just so that the younger doesn’t see him crying.

But Peter sees anyways. And Peter wipes the tears away. He draws Beck’s face down and kisses him, breathing easy. Breathing untimed and unregulated and calm, because he doesn’t need control to be calm when he trusts Quentin. 

Beck recalls everything in Peter’s lips. A million different moments in the supple, pink, crescent lined and a little heart-shaped lips. Sweet with sugar and the juice from fruits, or earthier and floral like the gin, all of which Quentin watches him bite into and sip from, soft lips malleable and plush. 

He sees them vermilion red and swollen when Beck kisses him and kisses him _and kisses him_ because he can, because Peter is _his_ , because the boy is just so goddamn kissable. He sees them shimmering with spit when he pops off after blowing Beck. He sees them a pretty candy red when Peter bites them in thought while reading the latest study in biochemistry or lost in pleasure. He sees them an angry, vibrant, chapped garnet when Peter cries, when he sobs and chokes on his own breath and screams at Beck for hurting him, when he cries that he’s scared of Quentin, scared _for_ Quentin, when he begs Beck to put the bottles away and talk to him. 

He sees everything in Peter’s cheeks. Full but not overly so, giving way to a strong jaw and cheekbones, the roundness and the sharp edges and the pretty freckled skin that smooths the divergence between the two.

Peter’s cheeks that Beck loves to hold and caress and kiss, cheeks Peter leans into the gentle embraces, cheeks Peter nuzzles into Beck’s beard and thighs like a cat rubbing against him, claiming Beck’s body as his own, claiming Beck as his to get all sensations from, claiming _Beck_. Cheeks that flush pink when he's pleased or flattered or been leaning over the pot on the stove for too long. Cheeks that fill out when he smiles so bright because he figured out the equation, because he won the game of "Clue", because he convinced Beck to go olive and wine tasting or surfing or figure skating.

Quentin sees cheeks that he hurt. Mature cheekbones and a confident jaw and sweet youthful plumpness that Beck _hit_ , cursed, chasing away the purest thing in his life.

~~_Damn him._ Damn him, damn him, _damn him._ ~~

Everything in Peter’s eyes. So big; perfect circles of that honey gold. Beautiful, wide eyes, sullen and colored like the whiskey he watches Beck drink when they both know there’s no way Quentin is getting through the night sober. Eyes so prominent with those dark lashes.

Beck sees those eyes that shine so bright with excitement and passion and mirth and love, eyes that sparkle with tears from laughter and joy. Eyes that squint in the sun, Pretty eyes that nearly popped out of his head and began to gleam when Beck dropped to one knee. Eyes that glimmer and grow red and puffy when Peter cries, when he screams questions of why, sinking to the floor and grabbing onto Beck’s legs like a lost child and looking up with those big, round, puppy dog eyes and begging him to stop drinking because they’re _getting better,_ but on those nights where they hit those lows—they hit _hard._

Beck sees everything in Peter’s hand. He sees the whole fucking world in Peter Parker's left hand. Slender fingers and slim palm that aren’t entirely immune to the inherent pudginess of smaller hands. 

He sees that hand holding Quentin’s so tightly, giving gentle touches to Quentin’s body, wiping tears from his cheeks and massaging his shoulders and cradling his head when Quentin is sick and dizzy because dammit he’s trying _so hard_ and he is getting better, he _is,_ but he couldn’t help it. That hand that trembles with fear for him every time he relapses. 

Beck sees that hand slapping his arm in retaliation for a stupid joke. He sees that hand holding a pencil, writing notes for Peter's latest project, or holding a spatula that Peter's going to lick leftover brownie batter from. Pouring margaritas in November and mixing hot chocolate in July. Petting the head of every friendly dog whose owner is kind enough to allow Peter to pet. Beck sees that hand balled up, striking him hard across the face in anger and fear and hate, protruding knuckles red from the heat. Bruised.

He sees those stupid, beautiful painted nails scratching his back when they hate fucked. Sliding smoothly down his shoulders when they make love.

He sees Peter’s delicate little forth finger with a golden band around it, perfectly round and smooth and shining from how much Peter absently touches it—the ring matching Quentin’s, reminding him that it’s his fault, it’s all his fault, he pursued Peter, he fell in love with Peter, he _lost_ Peter, and, hopefully, just maybe, he got Peter back—Peter’s ring looking perfect and _right_ on his hand, on his hand that Beck wants to always be able to hold. 

Tangible and calloused from the rough work but soft from the care, the gentle treatment, the healing. Just like them, _just like them._ Loving.

Beck wants to hold Peter’s hand so fucking bad as he stares and stares and stares at the whiskey and the rum he had stashed under the couch that now sit on the table. 

He craves them almost as much as he craves Peter. 

Is it because he fucked up again that morning? Is it because he snapped again, because it’s one of those days where it’s like nothing feels right and what’s the fucking point if he can’t keep Peter happy—and Peter tries to be patient but he won’t allow himself to be Beck’s ~~verbal, metaphorical, never physical, never again~~ punching bag, and Beck was cruel and Peter was spiteful and then Peter left, and it's just for the day but it _hurts,_ because losing Peter is like losing his beating heart, like losing his lungs?

Or is it just another craving?

Beck doesn’t fucking care. He just wants to numb it all out and drink himself into a coma, maybe worse, and he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t _he shouldn’t_ he can’t _he can’t_ but he _wants to_ but he _won’t._

He takes both bottles and he doesn’t have the patience or self-control to calmly pour them out like Peter does, so he grabs them by their solid glass necks and he breaks them on the kitchen floor and throws himself onto the couch so he can scream into the pillow until his voice gives out.

And then, when the wave passes and he can breathe again, Peter still isn’t home. So Quentin drags himself back to the kitchen. He won’t make Peter clean up this kind of mess, not again. He won’t. He vacuums up the glass and mops up the alcohol and sits back down at the kitchen table. He falls asleep.

When he wakes up, it’s to the sound of the front door opening. Because Peter came home again. _He always comes back home, now._

Beck looks up, and he knows he looks a mess. Red rimmed eyes and face blotchy from crying and hair disheveled from drowning his head in the pillow earlier, clothes rumpled and skewed, trembling physically and shaken inside.

But he’s still sober.

_He’s still sober._

And Peter is still here.

“Did you…?” Peter finally manages to begin.

Beck shakes his head. He swallows hard and gives a little smile, because he’s a mess and they’re a mess but this feels like a victory.

“No. I wanted to. I wanted to so bad, Pete. But I didn’t.”

Peter smiles at him. He’s crying. His sweet, puppy round eyes filling up with tears, spilling down his angelic cheeks, plush little bottom lip quivering. He walks towards Beck, small steps on slender legs that look like they might give out, and he doesn’t pause or hesitate but moves consistently and smoothly and slowly, wrapping his toned arms around Beck’s shoulders, pulling him in so Quentin can hold the boy in closer, hold him around his firm chest and narrow waist and bury his face in Peter’s pretty neck, breathe him in.

"I'm sorry," Quentin says. _I'm so fucking sorry, I'm sorry I have to be sorry_ _again._

"Me too," Peter replies. He shouldn't. He shouldn't say that. He shouldn't be sorry. He doesn't have anything to be sorry for. 

“I love you,” he adds. His voice is melodic. It seeps in to Quentin’s skin.

“I love you so much,” Beck replies. He pulls Peter tighter.

Feels the svelte figure underneath his hoodie and jeans, delicate, strong, slopes and dips and rough edges, and home to Beck. Peter kisses the top of Quentin’s head and reaches down, putting distance between them, letting Beck keep one hand on him but pulling the other into his own grip. He winds their fingers together and holds them palm-to-palm.

Peter’s hand is smaller, a little rounder. His fingers are shorter and Beck stares at where they curl over his, fingernails in cerulean blue with little gold flecks, chipped shamrock green, baby pink, pastel yellow, boysenberry purple, pressed against the back of Quentin’s hand, holding him down, grounding him.

Tethering him to the body in front of him. Radiating warmth. Radiating forgiveness and pride and patience and love.

His ring fits between the green and the pink. He can’t see Peter’s, but he can feel it.

“I love you more than everything. Please tell me you know. Please tell me you can feel it.” Peter says. Pleads.

Quentin swallows thickly. They’re both crying and neither of them are acknowledging their tears because something happened today and something feels different now.

Like something warm and full and heavy and empowering has settled in Beck’s chest, and from the looks of it, in Peter’s, too. Like something has come home. Like something was still there, even if it felt fading, like it never left and it never will leave now.

“I can feel it. I know, baby. I know. God, I can feel it. I love you, Peter.” He pulls Peter’s hand towards him and twists his arm so he can kiss the back of Peter’s hand, kiss his ring, kiss the boy’s wrist. He untangles their fingers and grabs Peter around his lithe waist again and stands to kiss him. They’re both still crying. But Peter’s crescent heart lips start to stretch into what could maybe be a smile and Beck is helpless. Helpless.

“We’re okay,” he says.

There is no more glass on the floor.

He wraps himself bodily around Peter’s body and kisses him until he can’t anymore. Until all he can do is cling to the boy and tremble and feel Peter, trembling just as much, holding him just as tightly. Whispering into Beck’s chest.

“We’re okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am not responsible for this. This is Sleep-Deprived Lemon's doing.


End file.
